


No one could save me (but you)

by diamondjacket



Category: SKAM (TV)
Genre: (like seriously it's barely there), Angst, Bipolar Disorder, Even's POV, Falling In Love, M/M, Mania, Mental Health Issues, One Shot, Smut, blink and you'll miss it dom/sub, one teeny tiny allusion to rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-22
Updated: 2017-03-22
Packaged: 2018-10-09 08:16:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10407816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diamondjacket/pseuds/diamondjacket
Summary: Isak, who didn’t want to kiss him on the street—even as Even’s mind was shoutingyes yes please let’s show them let’s show them—but now shoots him a small, coy smile, who leans in and brushes his wicked mouth over Even’s, softly, without much fire but with so muchheat, it leaves Even trembling, quaking inside. He feels his hands involuntarily clench into fists at his sides, and he almost chokes with how much he’s trying to hold back, to resist the urge to grab, to take. But oh God, hewants.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I blame Tarjei for this one, since he apparently likes the song “Wicked Game” by Chris Isaak, which I LOVE and is somehow both sad and sexy at the same time, and then I was listening to it nonstop and I couldn’t do anything until I wrote this. This is your fault, Tarjei, my dude. I hope you’re happy.
> 
> This is a short lil fic that takes place during 8:10, in the elevator/hotel room, right before everything goes to hell. It’s a little heavier (and smuttier) than I normally go, so be gentle with me. ☺

He knows he’s losing himself.

He can feel it in the harsh quickness of his gait, the too-loud volume of his voice in his ears, the tumbling, tripping staccato of his own thoughts as they gallop through his mind faster than he can pause to make sense of them. 

It’s kind of funny—afterwards, when it’s all over and he comes crashing down to Earth, he knows he’ll see clearly just how much his grip had slipped, that his hard-fought control had been lost, that everything had been too bright, too sharp, too intense to be normal. He’ll realize all of that later, and he’ll burn with shame and feel it keenly like the edge of a knife.

But here, now, in this elevator…it’s so simple to forget all of that, to push away the ghosts of dark thoughts he knows will come ( _they always do_ ). All he can think in this moment is that he’s never felt more powerful, more at home in himself, more ready for what comes next, more free to cast his fears aside and just do what feels good, what feels right.

And this time, Isak is there.

Isak, who didn’t want to kiss him on the street—even as Even’s mind was shouting _yes yes please let’s show them let’s show them_ —but now shoots him a small, coy smile and steps closer to share his body heat, no mind paid to the city spread out beneath them. Isak, who leans in and brushes his wicked mouth over Even’s, softly, without much fire but with so much _heat_ , it leaves Even trembling, quaking inside. He feels his hands involuntarily clench into fists at his sides, and he almost chokes with how much he’s trying to hold back, to resist the urge to grab, to take. But oh God, he _wants_.

He wants Isak with every cell in his worthless body, and the way Isak is looking back at him—with lust, with hope, like he’s hungry for something he can’t quite name—is making Even feel like he maybe doesn’t have to hold back. Not this time, not today. Not when it’s just the two of them, together, finally giving in completely to this _thing_ sparking between them that he can’t bring himself stay away from, even though just a few days ago, staying away had seemed so _important_. Why had it been so important?

He knows he’s losing himself.

But is that so bad, when he’s losing himself in something so _good_?

It’s so easy to slip his hands under Isak’s shirt and jacket when they spill out into the hallway, craving the welcoming softness of skin under his fingers and the hot huff of laughter against his shoulder as Isak fumbles around Even’s frenzied touches to pull the key card out of his pocket.

It’s so easy to press his face to the back of Isak’s neck, inhaling the sweet scent there and letting it settle in his nose and drive him _crazy_ in this unfamiliar, raw, animal way that makes Even equal parts afraid and exhilarated.

It’s so easy, so right, to push Isak up against the door once they’re inside their room, crushing their mouths together and greedily swallowing his muffled moans and shoving his thigh between Isak’s legs, tasting that pink, pink mouth when he lets out a startled gasp.

To tug and pull and rip at Isak’s clothes, until all he can see is mile after enticing mile of pale, smooth skin. To lay Isak out beneath him and run his lips and his tongue and his teeth across every inch of him he can manage, watching purple and red bloom on his skin like garden roses. To tease and press and stroke and suck until Isak’s mouth has gone beautifully slack and his breathing is shallow and his body tight as a bowstring, arching up like a live wire, like he’s shocked by how much he wants, like he just can’t help it.

To hold Isak close and spread him wide and open in every way he knows how, feel his warmth on his fingers and around his tongue, and then finally push inside.

It’s like nothing he’s ever felt before, being close to him like this. Looking down into Isak’s dark, hooded eyes and at his unbearably sweet face, and taking his thin, delicate wrists in his hands and pinning them down against the bed near Isak’s head, where his thick hair is fanned out around him like a halo. At that, Isak lets out a low moan and then looks surprised at his own reaction, like he hadn’t expected it to feel so good. But he keeps his hands there, a docile and trusting thing in Even’s arms, and Even’s heart skips a beat.

But then Isak is taking a shuddering breath, meeting Even’s gaze, and then—slowly, deliberately—grinding his hips downward, once, twice. Like he’s desperate for more, like he’s _ready._  

Even can’t hold back anymore.

He lets Isak consume each of his senses until the rest of the world is reduced to nothing but meaningless static, and he presses in, and in, and in, and Isak takes, and takes, and takes, until everything is just Even’s own heartbeat roaring in his ears, and Isak’s gasping cries and Isak’s bitten mouth and Isak’s flushed skin and _Isak_ against him, beneath him, all around him.

Until Isak arches up one last time, wrists straining against Even’s hold, shivering and shaking underneath him, mouth open in a silent scream that Even swears he hears anyway, loud and clear as a bell.

Until they’re sharing breath, and Isak’s trembling hand is threading in Even’s sweat-soaked hair, and Even’s chest is so full that he just has to let go. His moans grow loud, and his grip gets tight, and his hips stutter, and then all he sees is _white, white, white_.

When he comes to, Isak has gently flipped their positions and his overheated, too-sticky body is half-draped on top of Even’s. And he’s just _looking._ Like Even is something worth looking at, is something beautiful and worth keeping, is the most important something in the world.

He looks awed, and happy. Because Even is, incredibly, something that _makes_ him happy. And a part of Even squirms in the face of that look, wants to retreat, wants to yell. _Stop! Don’t you see? Don’t you see what I am? Don’t you see what’s happening to me?_

But that part of him is easier to silence, now.

Maybe, in this moment, he can let himself have this—this _thing_ that feels more important than anything ever has. Even if he’ll inevitably screw it up, even if this is the only time they get. Even if they’re Romeo and Juliet, enjoying their one precious night together before he’s whisked away to exile in Mantua.

_Or maybe_ , he thinks, pressing a shaky kiss to Isak’s forehead and pulling him further into the circle of his embrace. _Maybe he’ll save me back._

He knows he’s losing himself.

He knows he’ll be lost, soon.

But for the first time, he’s not scared.

**Author's Note:**

> Note that even though I have close family members with bipolar disorder (bipolar II, that is—not like Even, who I believe is bipolar I), I don’t have it myself, so I hope I didn’t take too much artistic license here—and if I did, please let me know. And sorry for all the run-on sentences. It’s an issue.
> 
> Come [follow me](http://diamondjacket.tumblr.com) on Tumblr. :)


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